Half Mad
by WriterfromWarDrobe
Summary: "The crew took a step back, nervously watching as father struggled to hold on to the fading life of the wriggling son. 'Stay with me,' he begged. 'You can't' suddenly shouted a sailor. 'You take him aboard the Dutchman and not carry him to the land of the dead, you fail your job. You curse yourself like Davy Jones'" One-shot.


**~ Half-Mad ~**

 **A Pirates of the Caribbean Fanfiction**

 **All rights belong to Disney**

Dead men told their tales of the cursed crew that attacked them. "Undead, they were," one British sailor reported to the Captain of the ship that had come to bear them away to eternity. "Why haven't you taken them to the Other Side?"

"Those cursed to roam the seas forever are not given that luxury," sighed the Captain.

"Is it a luxury?" asked the sailor as the Captain directed him below deck with the other dead passengers.

"When you've been confined to the water for as long as I have, you long for a new existence."

"But…I'll never see me mum again," the sailor blubbered, realizing he would not walk this world again.

The Captain rested his hand on the young Briton's shoulder. Only in the gesture could he offer comfort; he had nothing to say that would take away that youth's pain. Gently, he pushed down on the lad's shoulder, and the sailor continued his descent into the hold.

"That's the last of them," an old man announced in a husky voice, coming up to the Captain. "Such a cruel way to die. Do you know of the curse upon that Spanish crew that done them in?"

The Captain shook his head, and imploring eyes met the old man's. The older sailor began his tale, flicking a barnacle from his face. "Back in me pirate days, that Spanish captain was the terror o' every pirate alive. The Pirate Hunter. Salazar. His name still give me the shudders."

The barnacle encrusted ship on which they stood began to make for open water, where it would submerge into the depths of the Caribbean Sea. The Captain stared back into the cove where they had found the British Navy dead aboard their own ship. Beyond it were the wreaks of many ships, only one of which had some form of life still aboard – the Captain could sense it – though whoever they were did not show themselves.

"How did they come to be here in the Devil's Triangle?" asked the Captain.

The older man gripped the rigging and stared at the large rocks rearing out of the sea. "A pirate outsmarted ol' Salazar." The man glanced at the young captain, daring not to say the name of the pirate; it was his silence that made the Captain realize just who was the pirate. A hard light came into the Captain's eyes, then a look of fear made his face go pale.

"Henry."

The older man frowned. "No, Jac –"

"Henry?" the Captain shouted at the naval ship from where the dead had been collected.

"We cleared the ship, sir," confirmed another barnacle-clad sailor, staring at his Captain.

The Captain rushed back to the hold door and shouted down to the dead. "Henry!" He quickly realized that his cry was in vain – the dead were lifeless corpses again, only being granted one final moment at life to board the _Flying Dutchman_ ; when they would reach their final destination, they would be nothing more than souls who could not recall their mortal lives.

"Son…" the older man began, coming over to the Captain.

"She told me he joined the British Navy; I told her he was looking for Jack."

He could envision that day nearly two years ago, as though it were yesterday, when he had visited with his wife and had learned of his son's fate. The Captain had only been gifted two days on land in twenty-one years, and the memories wrought in those experiences replayed over in his head every day, every night. He had only survived as Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ on those short, few, precious memories. He remembered the first time he had returned, and found a nine-year-old boy standing on the cliffs beside his wife. He had a son – a son who had grown up on the tales of his parents and Captain Jack Sparrow; his mother had spared him none of the stories, thinking it untruthful to not tell him the real reason why his father was not there. The Captain had frowned at this, knowing that one day the boy would embrace the pirate blood in him and runaway to sea. He had been right. During his last visit to land, he had learned from his spouse that Henry had joined the British Navy.

"We fought against the Navy once," she shuttered as if that was the worst part about their son being on the ocean.

Her husband stared out to sea. "Do you know why he's out there? He told me, a couple years after my last visit – he boarded the _Dutchman,_ did you know? – that he knew of a way to break my curse. I told him to leave the sea forever. I could not bear the thought of my own child falling into the curse of his father and grandfather. We're all pirates; I did not want that for him."

"I couldn't hold him back from the sea." She sighed, resting her chin on his shoulder. "It's in his blood double thick – both mine and yours."

"You told him all the stories about Jack." Her husband sounded displeased. "He will hunt that infamous pirate down, pleading with him to help locate that Trident, being double-crossed by Jack, losing his life to the sea –"

"I have faith in him."

The Captain looked down at the woman in his arms. "You believe that he will save me?"

"I realize it may not work," she said slowly, bringing her eyes up to meet her husband's. "But I would have been disappointed if he did not try."

The Captain got off his knees from beside the hold door, not wanting to abandon the memory of him and his wife on the clifftop, gazing at the sea, wondering where was their son. They had been full of hope; maybe, just maybe, someday the three of them would be united atop that cliff for days on end. That hope was gone forever. In his mind, he only knew his son as a twelve-year-old; he would not have recognized him at twenty-one as he shoved him into the hold.

The Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ went to the prow of his vessel, resting his hands on the rail and leaning wearily over the beak. Sea spray stung his face as the ship began its descent below the waves.

 **~o.0.o~**

"There's someone in the water!"

The Captain joined his men at the port rail, noticing the figure bobbing on the waves, near where the _Flying Dutchman_ had surfaced. "Let's bring the poor soul aboard," he declared.

He paid little attention to the crew as they set off in a dory. Whoever was floating out in the water was long dead – collecting the dead was the livelihood of these barnacle-encrusted men, unable to die themselves. The _Dutchman_ never made a mistake; it knew where to find those ready to make their final journey.

"He's still alive!"

The Captain turned toward those who had returned to the ship, and who were now laying out the convulsing figure on the main deck. The horrid wretch was not long for this world, that was plain to see. His eyes were glazed, unable to focus on anything, and his whole body shook violently. The Captain knew it was only a matter of time; they could not have a live mortal on the vessel.

"Dea…dead…" the wretch stuttered. "M-m-m-m…en…t-tell…no…no…t-t…"

"Should we end his misery?" asked a sailor, drawing forth a dagger.

The Captain frowned. "He's trying to say something." And he leaned forward curiously.

"They're just the ramblings of a half-mad beast," sighed the older sailor, shaking his head pityingly.

"Quiet!" the Captain hissed, noticing the torn sleeves of the dying man's Navy jacket. His mind reeled back to three days prior when they had journeyed to the Devil's Triangle. Could this young man have survived Salazar?

"Tell…Ja…Ja…Ja…ck," the unfortunate being continued to mumble, throwing his head back and forth. The necklace he was wearing became exposed from behind his shirt collar. The bobbles thudded dully against the deck and caught the sunlight as they were tossed against the shaking man's neck. The Captain would have known those pendants anywhere.

"Henry." In an instant, he was on his knees and cradling the agonized creature in his arms. The crew took a step back, glancing at one another, nervously watching as father struggled to hold on to the fading life of the wriggling son. "Stay with me," he begged. "We'll get you some help."

"You can't!" suddenly shouted a sailor. "You take him aboard the _Dutchman_ and not carry him to the land of the dead, you fail your job. You curse yourself like Davy Jones, and damn the rest of us with you!"

"Then so be it!" the Captain shouted, tightening his hold on the quaking shoulders of the lad in his arms.

"I will not go back to crab legs and swordfish head!" hissed one sailor, drawing his sword.

"Is this mutiny?" the old man – the Captain's father – asked, addressing the sailors.

"What if this was your son?" The Captain began to rock slowly on his knees. He had never rocked his son to sleep as a baby, bounced him on his knee as a toddler, hugged him good night at the end of every day. "Would you not risk everything if this was your son?"

The sailors all looked at one another. For some of them, it had been so long since they had seen land, seen living people, seen wife and children if they had any, that humanity had been lost to them. It had been replaced with a knowledge of only their ship, only their crew, only their duty. They knew it like zombies.

"Would you risk the lives of eve'y man on this vessel for all eternity for the life of one half-dead wretch?" questioned the man with the sword. "You can't save him. Not on this ship. An' if ya do save 'im and get him to shore, you'll not see him again. So, what's the point, Cap'n?"

"Tri…tr…tri…dent," Henry mumbled. "Break…all…cu…cur…"

"What is he mumbling on about? Nothing!" hollered a sailor from off to the side of the crowd.

"NO!" the Captain bellowed. "He speaks of the Trident of Poseidon…"

A hush fell over the deck. An ancient sailor crept forward, almost bent double on his spindly legs. "I's a'heard o' tha' Triden' – it a'can break all the curses o' the seas. Do this laddie know how to find it?"

The Captain lifted his head. _Leave the sea forever. You have to stop acting like…_

 _A pirate?_

But he had not. The blood of the Pirate King and the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ ran through his veins double thick. He would never give up on his father.

"Yes," the Captain said slowly. "He's spent his life searching for it…to save me…to save us."

For a moment, only the rigging creaked, the timbers groaned, lamenting either the fate of the youth in the Captain's lap or the possible redemption of the _Dutchman_ – no one could say which it was for sure. The ship had always had a supernatural force of its own, controlling the crew. But at that moment, the crew was not part of the ship, rather part of the human race again. All at once they were filled with the foreign feeling of hope.

"So be it," declared the old sailor, but the man with the drawn sword was still a bit skeptical.

"Are you certain he will find the Trident?"

When Henry was twelve, telling his father how he would deliver the cursed crew of the _Dutchman_ , the Captain had told him to not try, to not return to the sea, to just forget he even had a father at the bottom of the ocean. Henry was a boy then; he was a man now – and he had not forgotten his father. And Will Turner, Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ , did not want to be forgotten.

"Yes, he will save us."

 **~o.0.o~**

Captain Turner watched that evening as his son, still delirious and semiconscious, was placed on a piece of driftwood to float with the tide into the bay of Saint Martin. He realized with a sinking heart like the setting sun that the tide was against Henry, on its way out.

"He'll never make the shore," sighed the Captain's father. "And there's nothing nobody on this ship can do for him now."

Will massaged his left hand; it had gone stiff, his fingers could not be pried apart, and it was in the shape of a C, like a lobster claw.

"Son, look!" Old Bill Turner exclaimed.

The Captain glanced toward Henry in the golden sunset reflected waters. The boy had looked up, and the sight of land must have registered in his feverish mind. He began to paddle as best he could in his weakened state.

"He's going to make it, son."

"Yes," Will returned. The skin of his hand was toughening and getting crusty. He was doomed, and his son was safe. But he knew Henry would come back for him. What Henry had said were not the ramblings of a half-mad beast; they were the dreams of the Captain's son.

 **Author's Note: According to Wikipedia, Henry is twelve when he boards the Dutchman at the beginning of the filth film. The rest of the film takes place nine years later, making Henry twenty-one. Will can only step on land every ten years, which would make Henry nine years old (nine months away from turning ten) on his first visit and nineteen on his second visit.**


End file.
